Sherrill and I visited more than 60 countries and most of the United States during our 52 years of marriage. This is number 26 of a series about our lives and travels. If you scroll down, you'll come to earlier posts in this series. To start at the beginning of our marriage look at the Archives list in the sidebar and start with May, 2017. Older posts you'll find below that are a previous series about later travels.
Sherrill & medieval bridge, Toledo, Spain The Spanish city of Toledo first brought to mind the apparition-like paintings of El Greco and then the notorious siege during the Civil War of the 1930s that left so much in ruins, but as we explored its hills and alleys we discovered much more and saw that in its long history it truly had become the "city of three cultures" -- Christian, Muslim, and Jewish. Our surprisingly modern parador stood across the river from Toledo, but with large windows that gave us views of historic old buildings and tiled roofs rising from the steep hills under a tempestuous sky, the great sixteenth century fortress of the Alcazar dominating it all—a scene eerily out of an El Greco painting.
Sherrill in Toledo, Alcazar on hill Part of the pleasure of exploring cities such as Toledo was that they were so different from the modern world we knew too well. The cobblestone streets winding between the stone buildings were so narrow that whenever we heard an approaching vehicle we jumped into the closest doorway. We couldn't see more than a few buildings ahead or behind, and felt as if we were finding our way through a maze.
"At least, I'm not trying to drive," Sherrill said after one of those cars nearly clipped us.
Finally, quite lost, I tried my high school Spanish on a tiny black-garbed old woman carrying a large basket up the road. She paused, peered up at me from beneath her shawl, poured out a brief flood of Spanish accompanied by short, emphatic gestures, then resumed her climb. Despite her small size, her legs must have been steel.
"At least, I'm not trying to drive," Sherrill said after one of those cars nearly clipped us.
Finally, quite lost, I tried my high school Spanish on a tiny black-garbed old woman carrying a large basket up the road. She paused, peered up at me from beneath her shawl, poured out a brief flood of Spanish accompanied by short, emphatic gestures, then resumed her climb. Despite her small size, her legs must have been steel.
Sherrill at Alcazar in Toledo Although years had passed since the Spanish Civil War, from time to time we saw lingering wounds from the fighting between the republicans and the supporters of the Spanish dictator, Franco. Battered and pocked by bullets and battles, the enormous Alcazar crowning the hill still showed scars as we approached it. A few years later, in East Berlin, we'd see similar wounds from World War II. It seemed appropriate as we zigzagged along the narrow streets, that we discovered a frigid basement museum of torture devices used against Protestants during the Spanish Inquisition. Several blacksmiths must have been very creative some time in the past; it was difficult to imagine how some of those contraptions would be used on their victims. We had little doubt, however, that over the centuries they also were used on anyone who challenged the powers that be.
I don't remember seeing any animals in Toledo, not a dog or a bird in the sky, not a cat, although they must have been there. In my memory, the city primarily was stone piled upon stone—except for the El Greco house and museum in the Jewish quarter. To see so many El Greco masterpieces in one place was an overwhelming experience: the passion, the faith, the brilliance of execution, left us dazzled.
One evening, as we sat in the Posada's large two-level dining room, a group came in and settled around a long table on the upper area. They all seemed to be involved with a man in a wheelchair who was positioned at the head. It wasn't until they all were seated at the table that we realized that the man in the wheelchair was Stephen Hawking.
I don't remember seeing any animals in Toledo, not a dog or a bird in the sky, not a cat, although they must have been there. In my memory, the city primarily was stone piled upon stone—except for the El Greco house and museum in the Jewish quarter. To see so many El Greco masterpieces in one place was an overwhelming experience: the passion, the faith, the brilliance of execution, left us dazzled.
One evening, as we sat in the Posada's large two-level dining room, a group came in and settled around a long table on the upper area. They all seemed to be involved with a man in a wheelchair who was positioned at the head. It wasn't until they all were seated at the table that we realized that the man in the wheelchair was Stephen Hawking.
Sherrill at the General Francisco Franco memorial Francisco Franco, dead for more than ten years when we were there, was entombed in a gigantic crypt in the heart of a small mountain topped by a giant cross visible from at least twenty miles away, surrounded by a vast memorial to the men who fell during the Spanish Civil War. Dictator for almost forty years, before he died he restored the monarchy and put Juan Carlos I on the throne of a constitutional monarchy. This seemed very hard to reconcile with the assertive fascist architecture in the style of Nazi Germany. When we entered the central nave of the crypt, we might have been walking into a giant fascist railroad station.
Sherrill, Plaza Mayor, Salamanca One of our favorite cities for strolling was the golden-hued university town, Salamanca, home to the oldest university in Spain and fourth oldest in Europe. The university was old when Columbus lectured about his discoveries there. The Plaza Mayor in the old city with its galleries and arcades felt comfortable, as well venerable and beautiful. Maybe the city appealed to us because we were from Berkeley.
"I could live here," I told Sherrill.
She patted my cheek with her hand:
"You'd have to work on your Spanish first, sweetie."
"I could live here," I told Sherrill.
She patted my cheek with her hand:
"You'd have to work on your Spanish first, sweetie."
Hanging house, Cuenca As brave as Sherrill was on the highways and roads of Spain, she met her match on the cliff-side road up to the hanging town of Cuenca. Crowded onto the top of a steep stone mesa, many of the narrow old houses, some several stories tall, cling or "hang" to the sides of the cliffs. Some of the houses looked to us as if they'd been squeezed out of clefts in the rocks. The narrow road up from the parking lot below bent sharply several times. I told Sherrill that we could walk up, but she said that she could manage the road. She started driving up, but when, a third of the way, she came to a second right angle turn sloping steeply upward, no guardrail either beside or behind us, she stopped.
"I can't!" she said. It was obvious that if she started rolling backward after making the turn we'd plunge off the cliff.
I got out of the car and guided her as she very slowly backed down. We were scarcely on flat land when a truck charged down the road from the town, clearly unable to stop as it swung around the corners. Sherrill clutched my shoulder.
"What if we'd been up there?"
Instead of driving, we walked up the road to explore the picturesque little town. Unusual and interesting as it was, it wasn't worth dying for--not even to peruse its rare silver reliquaries.
"I can't!" she said. It was obvious that if she started rolling backward after making the turn we'd plunge off the cliff.
I got out of the car and guided her as she very slowly backed down. We were scarcely on flat land when a truck charged down the road from the town, clearly unable to stop as it swung around the corners. Sherrill clutched my shoulder.
"What if we'd been up there?"
Instead of driving, we walked up the road to explore the picturesque little town. Unusual and interesting as it was, it wasn't worth dying for--not even to peruse its rare silver reliquaries.
As we drove south, we were enchanted more and more by hills of silvery-hued olive trees. We'd learned that olive trees live to be hundreds of years old, even to a thousand. Several times, we passed mile after mile of thick, gnarled trunks and roots crowned with clouds of silver-green leaves. Other times, the smear of silvery green that we saw on the horizon turned out to be groves of cork trees. We learned to recognize the raw orange-red trunks, naked of their thick bark. I was reminded of my favorite book when I was very small, Munro Leaf's Ferdinand, the story of a young bull who preferred smelling flowers under a cork tree to fighting in the bullring. I even had a little black rubber Ferdinand who looked just like the pictures in my book. I played with him so much that his horns, made of white rubber, wouldn't stay in his head. Aside from Ferdinand, neither of us had an interest in seeing a bullfight. The pageantry would have been exciting, but we never cared for blood sports.
To be continued....
To be continued....
Sherrill & ancient bulls of Guisando, Avila
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You also might enjoy reading the new bargain-priced e-book of my novel, The Night Action. It has been called the last great novel of an past era. "The novel careens around the night spots of San Francisco's North Beach and the words seem to fly off the page in the style of Tom Wolfe or the lyrics of Tom Waits." The book is available at Amazon and Barnes and Noble. Click on the title for the link.
You also might enjoy reading the new bargain-priced e-book of my novel, The Night Action. It has been called the last great novel of an past era. "The novel careens around the night spots of San Francisco's North Beach and the words seem to fly off the page in the style of Tom Wolfe or the lyrics of Tom Waits." The book is available at Amazon and Barnes and Noble. Click on the title for the link.
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